


The Boxer

by jat_sapphire



Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:54:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29739729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jat_sapphire/pseuds/jat_sapphire
Summary: Closely modelled on Paul Simon's "The Boxer."Backstory for both of them.
Relationships: William Bodie/Ray Doyle
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	1. Lyrics by Paul Simon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics--spoilery, so if that bothers you, you may want to skip it.

I am just a poor boy  
Though my story's seldom told  
I have squandered my resistance  
For a pocketful of mumbles  
Such are promises  
All lies and jest  
Still, a man hears what he wants to hear  
And disregards the rest  
  
Mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-mm  
Mm-mm-mm-mm-mm  


When I left my home and my family  
I was no more than a boy  
In the company of strangers  
In the quiet of the railway station  
Running scared  
Lying low,  
seeking out the poorer quarters  
Where the ragged people go  
Looking for the places only they would know  


Lie-la-lie  
Lie-la-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie  
Lie-la-lie  
Lie-la-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie, lie-lie-lie-lie-lie  


Asking only workman's wages  
I come looking for a job  
But I get no offers  
Just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue  
I do declare, there were times when I was so lonesome  
I took some comfort there  
La-la-la-la-la-la-la  


Lie-la-lie  
Lie-la-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie  
Lie-la-lie  
Lie-la-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie, lie-lie-lie-lie-lie  


Then I'm laying out my winter clothes  
And wishing I was gone  
Going home  
Where the New York City winters aren't bleeding me  
Leading me  
Going home  


In the clearing stands a boxer  
And a fighter by his trade  
And he carries the reminders  
Of every glove that laid him down  
Or cuffed him till he cried out  
In his anger and his shame  
"I am leaving, I am leaving"  
But the fighter still remains  
Mm-mm-mm  


Lie-la-lie  
Lie-la-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie  
Lie-la-lie  
Lie-la-lie-lie-lie-lie-lie, lie-lie-lie-lie-lie  



	2. Squandered My Resistance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Doyle)
> 
> ...I have squandered my resistance  
> For a pocket full of mumbles  
> Such are promises...  
> 

His voice rang out among the others, a ragged chorus:

_"I will maintain courageous calm in the face of danger, scorn, or ridicule..."_

The other cadets seemed to find a constant, inexhaustible source of humour in his hair. Yes, it was curly--a fair number of officers and probational cadets had their own curly mops--and yes, it was reddish, though darker than a true carrot, and there were plenty of real carrot-tops in the Force, pale skin and scattered fawn flakes as well. Ray was forced to conclude that the young probationers with red, curly hair and endless freckles, who also grinned and laughed along, or responded with some other friendly insult--well, the others got tired of not getting a rise out of them. While, somehow, he couldn't stop snarling and whirling round, shouting and waving two fingers or a fist, so it was largely his own fault that the ragging went on and on. Still, he couldn't stop, somehow.

_"...develop self- restraint..."_

That was the whole point, right there, wasn't it? No use in joining the Force rather than one of the street gangs, fighting for the law rather than against it, feeling like he was in the right rather than trying to act like some sort of lawless wild dog. Without some self-restraint.

But he was so _awful_ at self-restraint. It felt like a scratchy starched collar with a heavy woolen tie, strangling him, stifling him. Until the sergeant saddled Sid with him, and he caught the calm eyes on him, even a little wink. And relaxed at last.

_"...and be constantly mindful of the welfare of others."_

From the beginning, this came naturally. It was so easy to look at that scruffy kid, wiping his bloody nose with the heel of his hand, that bruised girl trying to hold together the rents in her cheap party dress, that sniffling boy being pulled up and shaken by the barrow-owner, and see some version of himself, hungry and beaten and laughed at, and push his own kerchief into the boy's hand, cover the girl's shoulders with his uniform jacket, stuff a pound note in the boy's pocket. "Get along now, and stay out of trouble."

If only they could. If only they all could.

_"Honest in thought and deed in both my personal and official life,"_

The world was so full of lies that he found that telling his own truth became more and more important to him. He laboured over his reports, penciling in more details and erasing inaccuracies to correct them until they could barely be read to type them. Sid laughed at him. "Red, eh? Are you sure it wasn't crimson? Vermillion? Maroon?" He drew out the vowel, "maro-o-on," like a wolf howling in a film. Ray admitted it was absurd, but it felt essential to get each fact right, to shine as bright a light as possible into the dark corners and dive right into the black mud near the docks.

Even his own black mud.

They took in a rent boy who had been dumped out of an expensive black car, right into a literal gutter, bruised and enraged and trying to pull together his rags of glittering clothing and his camp persona. They questioned him, wrote up the reports, took him back to his tiny flat where his boyfriend-cum-pimp waited in a state of barely-controlled hysteria.

Ray couldn't keep his eyes to himself. Fortunately, Sid was driving. After the boy and boyfriend made it into the flat block, as Sid pulled onto the road, he said casually, "Pretty, wasn't he?"

Ray's heart stopped in his chest, and then started thumping so loudly that Sid could probably hear it.

But he spoke kindly. "Eyes on stalks, you had. Need to watch that. Boys in blue, they don't take to shirt-lifters. Worse ragging than curly hair, son."

Ray gulped. "Ta," he managed to get out.

"Think nothin' of it."

Wasn't really possible, was that? But Ray did try. And Sid probably succeeded.

_"I will be exemplary in obeying the law and the regulations of my Department."_

With Sid gone, everything was harder. He tried undercover work and found he had a knack for it. Kept up his shooting and took a few titles. Nothing like tearing up a target on the range to encourage less ragging, no matter what the boys thought in private. He hardly ever saw most of them. The ones he did see--well, too many of them were crooked, weren't they? It was one thing to bend a rule or two to bring in the baddies, but another thing entirely to look the other way and take a handout under the table to NOT take them in. After Ray had turned down a few suggestions, they stopped asking him out for a pint as well, and he didn't mind.

Then he had a chance to take _them_ in. And did it. The job was long, and more thankless, the closer it got to the end. But he gritted his teeth and dug in his heels and got through it.

Near the end, while he was in protective custody and feeling more like a rat in a trap than a police officer ever should, a visitor appeared. About twenty years older than he was, sandy hair, blue eyes like gimlets, a cane and a bad limp. "Mr Cowley," he introduced himself. "Controller of CI5."

Ray had heard of the Glory Boys, certainly, but the drugs cases and the police corruption he'd been working on were nothing like what the Almighty-A-Squad did.

Or was there more in common than he would have thought?

"I recruit special men from the other security services. Exemplary men. Like you."

Ray could not help but laugh. "Me?"

"You." Both gaze and voice were solid, firm.

Perhaps this was a promise that would be kept.


	3. A Man Hears What He Wants to Hear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Bodie)
> 
> ...and disregards the rest.

Bodie had been a hit with the birds almost as long as he could remember. They told him that he was tall, dark, and beautiful; that his eyes and lashes were to die for; that he was a gentleman who did not act as though a woman owed him sex if he took her out to eat, or to a show; that he was all right as a dancer. They made happy, sexy sounds while they were in his bed. He had heard about women faking orgasms, but he didn't think his sex partners were faking. To be brutally honest, he felt it didn't really matter. If a girl made an effort to appreciate him, and was willing to go out with him again, then what difference did it really make to him whether she had some pleasure or overwhelming ecstacy?

After all, his own orgasm was never fake.

When Claire Sheldon got out of hospital, she met him at a restaurant they had never visited before. He was fairly sure that she meant to break up with him. Nobody would want to wonder whether this meal, or the next, would be interrupted by a bomb...or even a callout.

She was so sweetly, wholesomely pretty that he was happy just to look at her. She had no visible scars, and while she toyed nervously with her cutlery, she smiled at him almost as she used to do.

"Tell me," he said at last.

"I know, I always knew you weren't serious," she said. "I know you investigated, found out who sent the bomb, and I was glad when you told me that it wasn't about me...or you. But I suppose, I mean, there's no telling, is there?"

He waited, but she seemed to have finished. "No," he said, "I can't promise. That's the kind of work I do. Trying to keep people safe, but there are always more baddies, really. And I, well, I haven't been really in love since I was a boy." 

She nodded, but her eyes were full of tears. "Oh, Bodie," she said, and dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. "I was...I am really fond of you."

"Thank you, sweetheart," and that was his real goodbye. Still, he went on, "Don't be a stranger, all right? I hope you find someone worthy of you. Invite me to the wedding, yes?"

She made a snorting, half-sobbing half-laugh, and reached for his hand. He took her slim fingers in his own as she clutched him, then gradually loosened her grip and withdrew her hand. He took out his wallet and put several bills on the table. "There you are," he told her. "Should be a taxi fare there, too. Take care, Claire."

Unaccountably cheered, he left the restaurant. He could still make it to the dart match Ray had asked him to.


	4. No More Than a Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Bodie)
> 
> When I left my home and my family, I was no more than a boy...

At fourteen, Bodie had already been broad-shouldered and good with his hands, fast on his feet, eager for work and play, though most of the mercenaries he fought with were not, well, not the sort of men he would have introduced to his mother, if his mother had been willing to meet them anyway.

She would not have been. Before he had even left home, she was telling him that the blokes he spent time with were worthless arses and the girls were slags. He had learned not to care.

In Africa, the men he worked with were violent, aggressive, and always on the lookout for weakness they could exploit.

So he learned to fight.

At first, he wasn't very good at it. He was determined and persistent, and put up with bruises and wrenched muscles, hardly ever missing a shift. He was happy to find out that there was nothing ... like _that_ about losing, just a hand up or maybe a jeer. He watched closely, practiced with the good and the even-tempered, and gradually learned to be nimble and hard-hitting, not offering too much target or beating past a signal of submission. He lost less. He began to gain a reputation as a good man to practise with and a bad man to cross.

By the time he jumped ship at Dakar, he thought of himself as a good warrior.

Then, with his mercenary unit, he trained in hand-to-hand conflict, with brass knuckles, bludgeons, handguns, grenades ... at last, rifles. The longer the gun, the better he liked it. He liked the way the targets exploded and how far away they could be and still be in range.

(He never liked knives or even bayonets. They seemed sneaky, somehow, sliding into flesh without honourable force, stealing blood and life.)

He liked the money, too. There weren't many luxuries to spend it on, but he preferred to save it anyway. He sent some home, banked some, carried some in a comforting roll around his waist.

He met a friendly nurse, bedded her from time to time, joined Krivas' band for the money and found he could not easily get out. And then, Krivas met Jenny, and when Bodie tried to convince her that Krivas was no good, Krivas killed her.

Bodie didn't so much leave as escape. He felt hollowed out with grief, as if he had aged twenty years, as if the excitement and adventure had drained out of his life, and there was no point in walking to and fro across the earth. He went home to England, only to find that his mother had died while he was gone, and none of his remaining relatives were glad to see him. Truly, he was in the company of strangers.


	5. The Places Only They Would Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Doyle)
> 
> Looking for the places only they would know...

Ann lay on her side, the curve of ribs to waist, waist to hip, the length of her legs, lovely and pale. "You don't need to leave, Ray."

He did, though. He couldn't stay and not put his hands on that silky skin, bury them in the golden fall of her hair. Feed on her mouth, on her breasts, on her lower lips. If he stayed, he'd forget the Force and just cleave to her.

That would never do. He knew himself. He could never share her with the other men she lay with. She would never go into other work, like factory labour or cleaning up after other people, or laundry. She was like an unattainable dream, not the kind of bird he met at a pub or the dance palais, who'd settle down to have babies and cook the dinners.

He didn't know then that she had a daughter, or that the last time he would see her, that same lovely length would be stretched on the shale. Dead.

Now she was underground. He dragged himself to his feet, the crutches like handcuffs on his forearms, the wound in his hip stabbing, trying to grin at Bodie's joke about pretending he'd done something dangerous.

Bodie joked, but he'd also had real panic in his voice when Ray was flat on the concrete of the car park with a bullet in him. And now, he was hovering close and jollying him along, helping him into the passenger seat as if he were sixty years old and arthritic with it. Out again at the flat block as if he were Bodie's old mother ... or Cowley's. Ray was bedded down on the sofa with a striped blanket, a cup of tea just the way he liked it, and a plate of chocolate digestives that were more for Bodie than for him.

He grinned and crunched, and went for more when the plate was empty. "Want a drink?" he asked.

"Not with the pain-killers," Ray replied. Bodie got himself a bit of scotch. "Single malt and chocolate?" Ray made a face. Bodie shrugged and sipped. Then he leaned over and put the glass down.

He grinned again and crunched on a digestive. "Madman," Ray said, smiling himself.

Bodie swallowed and looked solemn. "Scared me to death today. If that shot had ... if ..."

Ray put one hand on Bodie's arm. Bodie grasped above the wrist and rubbed back and forth.

"It didn't," Ray said. "You shot him."

Bodie still didn't meet his eyes. His grip loosened, until he was barely ruffling the hair on Ray's arm and watching, head cocked to one side, as if the movement were fascinating.

"Bodie." Ray's voice had softened. Bodie went on stroking the hair back and forth and didn't look up.

Ray shivered and reached up, as slowly as if Bodie might start back, and put his fingers in Bodie's hair, stroked back and around, into the hair at the back of his neck.

"Ray." Bodie's voice had that low burr, the way he spoke into a bird's ear, while he swayed back and forth with her like a dancer.

Ray stood and drew Bodie to his feet, and took little rhythmic steps the way he'd seen Bodie do, putting his face into Bodie's neck and kissing, licking, and nibbling, humming a little to the kind of pop song Bodie put on the radio. Bodie put his head back as a bird might, his eyes half-shut, his lips curved, holding Ray close.

"I want to stay," he murmured. "May I stay? With you, beside you."

"Stay." Ray's lips, his voice, buzzed against Bodie's skin. It was like whispering a secret, in a secret place where they were alone together.


	6. Asking Only Workman's Wages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Bodie)
> 
> ...I come looking for a job,  
> But I get no offers,  
> Just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue  
> I do declare  
> There were times when I was so lonesome  
> I took some comfort there ...

Doyle had been up north on back-to-back undercover jobs. The cases were related, and even before he left, he'd been working long hours in Files, reading computer printouts, questioning grasses, tracing money as it moved around.

No time to see a picture, catch a show, eat a meal in a restaurant or make one at home. Just drop into bed and sleep, get up and run in the morning, go to work and drag home.

Even if they had been known to be cohabiting, no one would have been able to tell but by the double bed.

Birds asked Bodie where Ray had gotten to, if he'd taken a vow of celibacy or something (with a giggle), whether he himself were busy.

He wasn't. He should have been.

If he had been married, or engaged, fewer of them would have pressed him. But obviously he was fancy-free, and his fancy had roamed wide and far before Ray ... before Ray.

His hands felt empty, and though he bought snacks and sausage rolls and fried chicken, he felt hungry all the time. Skin was what he wanted. A soft, moist enclosure for his prick, eyes that warmed as they rested on him, hands that gave and took pleasure.

Marilyn was a new hire in the typing pool. Betty seemed impressed, which made Bodie notice her, but she also seemed truly dedicated to bringing her namesake back to life: the breathy voice, the big eyes, the ample bosom, the tousled platinum hair, the cinched-in waist and little flip of the hips, and the little glance over her shoulder. Bodie knew she was acting and he still found her enchanting.

He and Ray had made no vows, asked for no promises. Why should Bodie sit at home, eat takeaway and watch telly, when he could at least tease and laugh, go dancing or out for a pint?

He didn't want to hurt Ray. But why should he be hurt?


	7. Going Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Doyle)
> 
> Getting out my winter clothes...

He didn't have all that many clothes, really. A few pairs of jeans, a few jumpers, t-shirts, cotton button-down shirts, trainers, the heeled boots, socks, pants ... One suit, one tie. The woolly-collared leather jacket, the motorbike jacket, the red-and-black checked jacket. The helmet. A scarf or two. Leather gloves.

Not much in the rest of the flat, either. Record albums, cassette tapes, the stereo itself, a couple of potted plants, that framed picture of Cowley that the CI5 movers shifted from place to place no matter how often he put it in the rubbish. A water-pistol Bodie had given him. He picked it up and gripped it hard, remembering how they had laughed and chased each other around the flat, water flying until they collapsed on the sofa, still laughing, and how Bodie wiped his hand down Ray's shirt and then ran his palm up under it.

They'd been happy. He shook himself. _He_ had been happy.

He didn't really know about Bodie, did he?

He carried the albums down to the Capri first, then the other boxes. He left Bodie the basic kitchen pieces: a carving knife, serving fork, cooking spoon, a pan for the cooktop and one for the oven. A cutting board. Ray had bought it, though Bodie probably wouldn't remember where it had come from. As it sat on the worktop, Ray caught himself stroking with the grain of the wood and stepped back. That was ridiculous.

He folded Marilyn's pants with the crotch in, just a little square fold of black lace, and left them next to the cutting board.

He didn't leave a note. If Bodie had questions, he could ask them at HQ. Of someone who still worked there.


	8. The Fighter Still Remains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Bodie and Doyle)
> 
> ...and he carries the reminders  
> Of every glove that laid him down  
> Or cuffed him till he cried out  
> In his anger and his shame  
> "I am leaving, I am leaving"

After his years as a CI5 agent, spending so much time observing, following, backtracking ... Ray recognised a bad actor when he saw one. The private security job was all right, not as dangerous as he had been used to, and a lot more pay. No Bodie. He missed the others too, but it was Bodie he kept turning to say something to, thinking he could take the back up for granted, dreaming he'd wake up with a warm body beside him and arms around his waist or fingers in his hair.

He made an appointment with Cowley and gave him copies of the notes he had made. It was nice seeing Betty again, and Murphy in the VIP lounge. Murph said, "You'll want to see Bodie?"

How could he say no? How could he explain why the idea of laying eyes on Bodie sent a stabbing pain through his chest, made him rub his fingers together, longing for the texture of Bodie's skin?

"Where is he?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

"With Macklin," and Murphy had the small smile that always made him look as if he knew more than anyone else. Ray cast about for an excuse but could not come up with one.

Leaving the lounge, he found himself outside the door of the training room and heard Macklin's scornful voice, bumps and thumps. Bodie did not speak.

It would have been fun, Ray acknowledged, to join in. The best moments he'd had in training had been when he and Bodie charged at Macklin together. But Ray was out of training now and would only get both of them into trouble.

The scuffling noises retreated to the other end of the room, and Ray turned the handle, easing the door ajar. At the same moment was a louder scuffle, blows, and a great thump as Bodie fell on his back.

Macklin had on one of his sleeveless singlets, blue. His blond hair was tousled and his head bent in the way that Ray had seen so often. Surely, he would have had plenty to say, but Bodie looked past him, saw Ray, and could no longer be said to be paying attention.

"Doyle!" He gazed up, astonished, his soul in his eyes. " _Ray_!" 

Bodie held out one hand. Overtaken by memory of the Parsali op training, when Bodie had pulled him up from the mat and curled one arm round him, Ray drew Bodie up and steadied him.

Macklin put his hands on his hips and glared in silence for a moment. Then he turned away, patting the air. "Go on, then. Have your moment in the shower-room."

Bodie followed obediently, while Ray wondered. That had been the sort of comment that would have made Bodie react defensively, in the past, punching Ray's arm or making a rough joke. Now he seemed not to have grasped its implication in the least.

Dropping onto the dressing-room bench, Bodie held out his hands again. Ray took them and stepped nearer. Bodie turned their palms upward and put his face down into them. The warmth of his cheeks against Ray's fingers, the soft brush of Bodie's lashes, the slack, closed lips against Ray's palms ... Ray had never received such an honest and plain apology, especially without words.

He had used to say that he didn't want promises. "I want your word," he said now.

"You have it," Bodie said without raising his head. Then he looked Ray right in the eye."Sex may be fun, and women feel good, but you're my _life._ "

"All right," Ray said softly. "All right."

... _but the fighter still remains._


End file.
